Death Walked In

by Carolyn Hart

  Annie wondered if Geoff had ever read Ben’s blog. “I won’t be trapped…” “In any event, he’s a free spirit.”

  Grant’s lips pursed. “Free? Maybe too free. I give the children a substantial sum every year at this time. He uses the money for travel. The next thing I know he’s broke again. But he’s always the life of the party. He makes us laugh.” Geoff’s smile was reluctant, but admiring. “He does impromptu skits and somehow he can make you see anything. Last night he was imitating a giraffe talking to a beetle about global warming.” He laughed aloud. “The giraffe was pompous and the beetle was sly and pretty soon he had us doubled up laughing. You can’t be downhearted around Ben. He’s even worked as a stand-up comic at some comedy clubs. I wish he’d take that energy and put it to good use.”

  Annie shrugged. “Since he’s still single, his lifestyle doesn’t affect anyone but him.” She waited for Grant to ask how she knew so much about his family.

  Instead, he looked grim. “Until he can be responsible, he certainly won’t have my approval for marriage.”

  Annie looked at him sharply. In the twenty-first century, anyone of legal age was free to marry at will. Grant’s suddenly pinched mouth was at odds with his usually genial expression.

  “Ben’s always in debt.” Geoff shook his head in disgust. “As for Barb, it’s the same old story. She wants to be a famous actress and the truth is”—he looked suddenly sad—“she doesn’t have half of Ben’s talent. She believes wearing the latest, most expensive styles will make her stand out. She goes to trendy places because she thinks she will see people who matter.” A half smile was rueful. “But she’s a sweet girl, one of the family. Family.” He looked forlorn. “Now you’re telling me that someone in the family is a thief and a murderer. I don’t believe it. I saw them grow up. I know them.” He stood up. “It would be decent of you to retract that story. Publicly.”

  Annie stood, too. “I can’t. It happened.”

  His look was dogged. “That woman at the pier was confused. Or lying. Or perhaps Gwen was mistaken.” He looked glum. “All of us will be suspected after that story is printed. I told the reporter that the informant was absolutely incorrect and that no one in the family could possibly be involved. She said she’d quote me very carefully.”

  Annie felt ashamed. Marian Kenyon couldn’t report what the unseen informant told Annie because the material wasn’t privileged and was possibly libelous on its face. However, now all Marian had to do was quote Annie saying the woman beneath the pier had been told by Gwen Jamison that she recognized the thief, explain that the lack of privilege prevented the Gazette from describing possible suspects, then follow with the quote from Geoff Grant insisting that the woman at the pier was absolutely mistaken and no one in the Grant family was involved. Readers would follow the bouncing ball without any difficulty.

  Annie stared at the floor. She’d intended to rile the Grant family. She’d succeeded. Unfortunately, all of the Grants would now be suspects even though only one person was guilty.

  “All right.” He was terse. He stood. “What’s done is done. Now we have to deal with the aftermath.” He moved away, head down. Halfway to the door, he turned and looked back. “I told the police they have to find that woman at the pier. Officer Harrison said she would talk to the Jamison family, get a list of Gwen’s close friends. How clearly did you see her?”

  Annie had her story down now. “I scarcely caught a glimpse before she rowed around the headland.” Thin and small and bony. Not a young woman.

  He didn’t move. “I sail in the bay. It’s at least forty yards before the boat would be out of sight.”

  Annie said nothing.

  His face hardened. He strode toward the front. The door closed.

  Annie’s heart pounded. Geoff Grant wanted to talk to the informant. So did his wife, Rhoda. As soon as the Gazette came out this afternoon, the residents of the Grant house on that fateful night would know that Gwen Jamison had seen and recognized the thief. The murderer could not take a chance that Gwen had told her friend the name of the thief. Annie was sure the woman possessed that deadly information.

  Annie whirled and hurried to the storeroom for her purse and car keys. She’d unleashed a tiger and she had to rescue its prey.

  Chapter 10

  In the marble hallway, Max gestured toward a frosted door with a legend in gold letters:

  BRICE WILLARD POSEY CIRCUIT SOLICITOR

  “You’d better take the Reverend Shelby in.” Max looked at Handler Jones, his expression rueful. “If Posey sees me, he’ll turn into a pit bull.”

  Tall and imposing in his dark suit, the Reverend Shelby stood with his arms folded, a man clearly unhappy to be there.

  The lawyer shook his head. “I’ll have to tell Brice how I found the reverend. You’d better come in. Brice will have some questions.” Handler’s easy smile was reassuring. “Brice and I were at the Citadel together. It will be all right.”

  As a plump, blond secretary announced them, Handler led the way. Max followed behind the Reverend Shelby.

  Posey was on his feet, hand outstretched, mouth spread in a good-old-boy grin. “Hey, Handler.” He sounded positively genial. “Are you hard up for clients? How come you’ve taken on a kid too dumb to ditch the murder weapon? Not even your golden tongue will sway a jury this time.”

  Despite the warm welcome for Handler Jones, Max saw the same old Posey, black brilliantined hair, watery blue eyes in a meaty face, a beer-and-barbecue potbelly.

  Handler was relaxed. “I don’t think we need to worry about a jury, Brice. I won’t even need the twenty-four hours you were kind enough to promise.” The lawyer pumped the solicitor’s plump hand with every evidence of camaraderie. “You had a good prima facie case. No one can ever fault your preparation.” There was great emphasis on the possessive adjective.

  Posey stood a little straighter, lifted his plump chin.

  Handler clapped him on the shoulder. “First-rate, always. As it happens, no fault of yours, the police work fell short this time, but clearly that was understandable since my client was less than forthcoming. But I’ve brought an unimpeachable witness for him.”

  Posey looked past Handler at the tall black man. Then he spotted Max.

  Max tried to keep his face calm and unrevealing. He didn’t like Brice Willard Posey. Brice Willard Posey didn’t like him. Their enmity went back a long, long way. Posey’s delight in charging Max with murder last summer set a seal on their mutual loathing.

  Handler wasn’t fazed. “Brice, this is the Reverend Harold Shelby, pastor of Shady Grove Baptist Church on Broward’s Rock. He has important information concerning the Jamison case. Max Darling is assisting me.”

  Posey looked sly. “When did you get your PI license, Darling?”

  Max had no PI license. The sovereign state of South Carolina had particular and specific requirements for the granting of licenses to private investigators, including experience as a law enforcement official. Max insisted that Confidential Commissions was in no way a private investigative agency. He offered counsel and encouragement to clients seeking advice. He grinned at Posey, suddenly enjoying the moment. “In this instance, I’m working as a consultant with Handler. I was able to assist him by speaking with the Reverend Shelby.”

  Posey’s porcine blue eyes glittered. “You’re going to push me too far one of these days, Darling. All right.” Posey was abruptly surly. “Sit down, gentlemen.”

  Handler looked appropriately grave as they took the chairs opposite the desk. “We won’t take much of your time, Brice. Your schedule is always demanding. However, you will be pleased to avoid a false arrest. It was splendid of you to delay filing formal charges against my client and”—Handler’s smile was brilliant—“that will save your office from embarrassment in the press. You know how the press can be.” He paused to let Posey imagine headlines. “Not a good thing in an election year.” The lawyer’s gaze was supportive, his tone genial.

  Posey picked up a
pen, rolled it in his pudgy fingers. “What’ve you got?”

  Handler gestured toward Max.

  Max kept his recital brisk and nonconfrontational. He described his visit to the Shady Grove Baptist Church. “Robert has a good friend in Pastor Shelby’s daughter. I hoped to visit with her as I thought it was possible Robert had dropped by the church Wednesday morning. He was vague about his whereabouts—”

  Posey was brusque. “Driving around the north end of the island. What kind of story is that?”

  “—but the Reverend Shelby had made it clear he didn’t welcome visits by Robert. Handler had an instinct that Robert’s silence was not so much to protect himself as someone else. Handler directed me to inquire about Robert’s friends. One of them told me Robert had the highest regard for Serena Shelby. I went to the church and was unable to speak with Serena, but I met with her father. Reverend Shelby, will you please tell the solicitor about Wednesday morning?”

  Shelby’s massive face might have been twisted out of steel. He looked directly at the solicitor. “At a quarter past ten, I needed to speak to the main teacher in the three-year-old class. We have a preschool and day care, infants to kindergarten.” Some of the hardness seeped out of his face. “My daughter’s very good with the little ones. She works in the three-year-old class on Wednesday mornings until she, herself, goes to class. She’s a freshman at the Technical College of the Low Country. Certainly I expected her to be in the classroom. After I talked to Mrs. Greeley, who directs our program, I asked for Serena. Mrs. Greeley said she’d gone outside to see a friend. I was afraid it might be Robert.” Once again his face was unyielding. “Serena was forbidden to see him. He isn’t the kind of young man I want coming around my daughter. Serena is too kind and gentle. She doesn’t see badness in anyone.”

  Posey was pleased. He leaned forward. “So Jamison’s a known hoodlum?”

  Shelby’s frown was intense. Reluctantly, he shook his head. “That isn’t correct. He’s not mean or violent or dangerous. He’s lazy and profligate and no-account. He’s run around with a wild group for the last four or five years but the worst they’ve done is drink too much beer and be shiftless.”

  “Out to make an easy buck?” The solicitor looked eager.

  “Hardly out to earn a penny, honest or otherwise.” Shelby was disdainful. “However, Robert’s character is not why I am here. I found Serena and Robert sitting in his car. The time was approximately ten twenty-five. They were talking.” His tone implied Robert was fortunate indeed that the tryst was innocent of intimacy. “I yanked open the passenger door and directed Serena to go to my office at once. I then spoke with Robert. Our discussion lasted at least ten minutes. I made it clear to him that he was not to see or contact Serena in any manner.”

  Handler bent his head toward Shelby. “What time did you find Serena and Robert in his car?”

  “The church bells tolled the half hour shortly after.”

  Posey flipped open a folder, ran a pudgy finger down the sheet.

  Max knew the moment Posey reached the incontrovertible fact that Gwen Jamison’s body had been discovered at eight minutes past the half hour. Max knew the times. Gwen Jamison called Confidential Commissions at ten-twenty. Barb tried to contact Max. When he didn’t answer his cell, she called Annie, who set out to see Gwen Jamison. Barb again called the Jamison house. The phone was picked up but nothing said and the line remained open. Annie found Gwen dying at ten thirty-eight.

  It was reasonable to assume that Gwen was shot after ten-twenty but before Barb called the Jamison house.

  If Robert was speaking with the Reverend Shelby at ten-thirty, he couldn’t have been at his mother’s house when she was shot.

  Posey looked up with a glower. “That’s convenient for Robert.”

  The Reverend Shelby’s frown was equally intense. “I have no interest whatsoever in making anything convenient for Robert Jamison. Ever.”

  Posey slammed the folder shut. “Do you people realize how much money and time the accused—” He broke off, drew a deep breath. “This uncooperative witness has cost the state of South Carolina? The man hours involved in this investigation? The damage that may result from the subsequent delay in focusing our investigative energies in the right direction?”

  He shoved back his chair, rose, paced toward the fireplace. He swung about, an outraged prosecutor practicing for a news conference, and leveled a forefinger at Handler Jones. “I’ve half a mind to charge your client with obstruction of justice.”

  The Reverend Shelby stood. “This is typical of Robert. I don’t blame you for being outraged.”

  Posey crossed the room, shook a surprised Shelby’s hand. “Reverend, if we had more public-spirited citizens like you, our job would be much easier. Thank you for representing the best in citizenship.”

  Max knew that Posey, as always, was playing to the crowd, in this instance an admired and respected member of the black community. However, it had seemed an almost spontaneous gesture. Max came nearer to liking Posey than he would have thought possible.

  Posey was glaring again when he swung toward the lawyer. “It will require the taking of statements to confirm this information.” His nod toward the Reverend Shelby was respectful. “A matter of form, sir, a matter of form. I’m sure Miss Shelby and Mrs. Greeley will be happy to cooperate. Of course, the police must redirect the investigation. That takes precedence. However, as soon as the formalities are completed, possibly by tomorrow, Robert will be released.”

  His chief suspect was history, but Posey was demonstrating he was not a man to be stampeded and there were procedures to be followed.

  Jones nodded agreeably. “Certainly, Brice. I’ll make it clear to Robert that his actions have impeded the investigation. He will be available to assist you in any way he can.”

  Max was torn between irritation and amusement. Continuing to hold Robert might be petty of Posey—what else was new?—but another day of detention was a small price to pay for freedom.

  Annie drove past the live-oak-bordered road that led to the Lucy Kinkaid Memorial Library. The island’s library was housed in an old tabby home bequeathed to the city for library use. Annie drove until she reached an entrance to an adjoining nature preserve. Confident no one was behind her, she turned down a dusty narrow lane and eased the Volvo behind a tall stand of bamboo. She stepped out of the car and followed a faint path through the woods.

  Vines spread across the trail and tree limbs interlocked overhead, making the way dim as twilight. She took off her sunglasses and stepped carefully, skirting fallen logs that might serve as a den for rattlers or copperheads. Of course, a snake could curl up for a winter snooze in a hole beneath a mound of leaves. If she stepped in the wrong place…

  Annie picked her way as delicately as a long-legged heron. It was warm and sunny today and snakes might ease out of their retreats to enjoy a sunbath. The only danger would be if she disturbed them. Definitely she had no desire to disturb any snake.

  By the time she reached the pine grove behind the library, she was perspiring and close to hyperventilating. She’d always had a horror of a close-up moment with either a copperhead or a red rat snake. Sure, they should be easy to differentiate—if she had half an hour and they were ensconced behind plate glass, not poised to spring at her. All right, she had a thing about snakes. She and Indiana Jones knew danger when they saw it.

  When she reached the blacktopped parking lot, she shoved the sunglasses in place, turned up the collar of the trench coat she’d fished out of the lost-and-found at Death on Demand, and pulled low on her forehead the red tam found ditto. After a careful survey to be certain no one was near, she scuttled past a half-dozen cars to the back entrance. Inside, she opened a little-used door to a cramped back stairway. She climbed at the edge of the ancient treads to avoid telltale squeaks.

  On the second floor, she stood in the corridor outside the administrative offices, an area off limits to the public. However, she was a member of the Friends of the
Library so she would be fine if discovered. Her stealth had nothing to do with her location and everything to do with contacting Inez Willis unobserved by anyone.

  She walked to the third office. A faint glow through the frosted glass indicated a light shone within. Annie tapped, opened the door.

  “Come in.” Inez was seated, her back to the door. She half turned from a computer screen filled with text. Yesterday, at Charlie Jamison’s house, she’d worn a mauve sweater and skirt and big-heeled black leather boots. Today she was a bright protest against dreary February in an orange turtleneck and mint-green slacks. She smiled politely. “These offices are restricted to staff. If you are seeking assistance, the research librarian on duty downstairs will be glad to help you.”

  Annie pulled off the tam and her hair sprang free. She dropped the sunglasses in her purse.

  Inez looked bewildered. “Annie?”

  Annie held a finger to her lips, closed the door behind her. “I don’t want anyone to know I’ve talked to you.”

  “What’s wrong?” Inez gestured at the chair next to her desk.

  Annie slipped off the trench coat and sank into the chair. With the coat bunched in her arms, she blurted out, “I’ve made a mess of things. I’m terribly frightened about what may happen.” As she described the story that would appear in the afternoon Gazette, she watched Inez’s face.

  The librarian’s eyes widened. Once she gave a little gasp and placed her hand at her throat. “That’s amazing.”

  Annie remembered the voice beneath the pier. It hadn’t been as light and quick and brisk as Inez’s voice. However, she had to be sure. “Were you the woman at the pier?”

  “No.” The disclaimer was quick and genuine. “I admired Sister Gwen, but we were never close friends. Her father and mine…No need to go into that, but we had a bar between us. I came to the house because I help with funeral arrangements at the church.” Her face was grave. “What do you want of me?”